By late summer of ’64, Debra and Ray had settled into their rhythm like a jukebox stuck on a favorite tune. The third night—always the wild card—had become a kind of unspoken pact, a ritual where the bouffant’s demise was just the opening act. One sticky August evening, with crickets chirping outside their screened-in porch, the air thick with humidity and the scent of Ray’s Old Spice, things took a turn.
It started as it always did. Debra, in her satin nightie, sprawled across the bed, her red hair already wilting from the day’s heat. Ray, shirtless and still smelling faintly of motor oil, leaned over her, his rough whiskers grazing her nipples. She giggled, squirming under the ticklish rasp, her breath hitching as his calloused fingers found their way south—slipping into her vagina and anus at once, a bold, familiar dance that made her toes curl. “Ray, you devil,” she murmured, her voice a husky mix of delight and daring.
But then Ray shifted. He leaned up, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, soft and sweet, a contrast to the rough play below. Debra sighed, melting a little—until his lips drifted lower, brushing her brow. What started as a kiss turned into a nibble, then a tug. She froze, eyes widening, as she felt a sharp little yank—Ray’s teeth had snagged a few of her eyebrow hairs and pulled them clean out. A jolt shot through her, amplified by his fingers still working their magic. “Oh!” she gasped, but it wasn’t pain—it was something else, something wild and electric. She grabbed his shoulders, urging him on.
Ray, caught up in the moment, went for it. More nibbles, more tugs—each pluck sending a shiver down Debra’s spine, her body arching as the strange mix of sensations built. Hair by hair, her left brow thinned out, Ray’s teeth ripping them free with a kind of feral focus. Debra’s moans filled the room, her climax crashing over her just as Ray hit his own, the two of them a sweaty, breathless heap. When it was over, he grinned, a couple of stray hairs stuck comically to his lip. “Well, damn, Debbie,” he panted. “That was somethin’.”
Come morning, Debra stumbled to the bathroom mirror, bleary-eyed and sated. Her bouffant was a wreck, but her left eyebrow? Holey as a slice of Swiss cheese. Tiny gaps dotted the arch, like a moth-eaten curtain. She laughed—a full, throaty sound—then grabbed her trusty eyebrow pencil. With a few deft strokes, she filled in the holes, sketching a smooth, if slightly patchy, curve. “Good enough,” she muttered, winking at her reflection.
That afternoon, she strutted into Betty’s Beauty Boutique, her scarf barely hiding the hair chaos. Settling into the chair, she launched into the tale with relish. “Betty, you won’t believe what Ray did last night,” she began, her green eyes gleaming. She spared no detail—the whiskers on her nipples, the fingers in all the right places, and then, the pièce de résistance: Ray ripping out her eyebrow hairs with his teeth. “And Bets, I liked it,” she confessed, fanning herself with a magazine. “Lord help me, I went off like a firecracker.”
Betty, mid-snip on Debra’s wilted bouffant, cackled so hard she nearly dropped her scissors. “Debra Ann, you’re a hoot! Ray’s out here playin’ dentist with your face, and you’re lovin’ it? You two are somethin’ else.” She shook her head, teasing the red locks back into their bubble. “How’s the brow holdin’ up?”
Debra tapped her penciled arch. “Filled it in. Looks like a drunk drew it, but it’ll do.”
That third-night pattern stuck. Every few days, after the sodomy and blow jobs preserved her hair, Ray’s teeth would find her brows. First the left, then the right—nibble by nibble, pluck by pluck, until her natural brows were little more than memory. By October, Debra’s face sported only thin, penciled wisps—high, arched lines she traced each morning with the precision of an artist. She’d catch Ray eyeing them over his coffee, a smirk tugging at his lips, and she’d swat him with a dishtowel. “Keep your teeth to yourself ‘til tonight, mister.”
Betty got the full scoop every visit, her laughter echoing through the salon as Debra recounted each eyebrow-ravaging romp. “You oughta write a book, Deb,” Betty said one day, spritzing hairspray like a fog machine. “Call it The Brow Bandit of Willow Creek.” Debra just grinned, adjusting her cat-eye glasses. “Maybe I will, Bets. Maybe I will.”
And so, in their little corner of 1964, Debra and Ray danced their peculiar dance—hairdos rose and fell, brows vanished, and love, strange as it was, thrived.
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